


you keep me up at night

by calcelmo



Category: The Godfather (1972 1974 1990), The Godfather - Mario Puzo
Genre: Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-17
Updated: 2020-04-17
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:21:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23706814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/calcelmo/pseuds/calcelmo
Summary: "Vito corleone has three sons: sonny, fredo and Michael. He also has an adoptive son who is not italian, Tom. Michael didn't want to be involved in the family business so he went to college and eventually dropped out to join the army instead. My fic is about his last night with his family before he goes to the army except he has sex with tom whoooops"
Relationships: Michael Corleone/Tom Hagen
Comments: 11
Kudos: 58





	you keep me up at night

**Author's Note:**

> the summary is just a direct copy of the text i sent trying to explain the premise of the fic... and also baiting you guys into clicking it to see how bad it is. sike  
> ~  
> serious note: i just wanted to do some justice to the greatest movie of all time so i wrote some gay incest

He was fifteen in the back of the car and pressing a handkerchief to Mike's mouth, blood staining his teeth. He couldn't understand why Mike let that happen. The two kids had scarpered, but Tom knew their names.

"Can't let them mess you around like that," he whispered. Tessio glanced up at them in the rearview mirror, taking in their predicament. Michael batted Tom's hand away.

"They have to understand you're one of us," he answered. He was a just a kid- a short, stocky kid who hadn't even started growing facial hair, but he talked like his father. He talked like he was already the head of the family, even though he'd decided he wanted no part of it. 

Tom was glad that Sonny wasn't there. He was bound to fly off the handle at someone. At Tom, for being a smartass. At the guys who'd beat him, for picking on his brother. Or Michael, for throwing himself into it. Sonny just liked having something to hit.

Tom heard them argue sometimes. 

"They can't think we're soft," Sonny yelled. "This is a _family_ business."

"And Tom is family," Michael hissed. "He's my brother. He's _your_ brother."

Tom felt his chest grow tight, hard to breathe over the rush of gratitude. Michael saw him as a brother. It was more than he could hope for. He could cope with the strange looks, the whispering. The children laughing. The men who brazenly mocked Don Corleone for taking him in, because they didn't believe blond and blue-eyed Tom could speak Italian. He could cope with all of it, so long as Michael called him brother. 

He didn't know why. He tried not to think about it too hard, or why he could never look away from him when Michael was around. There was just something about him. A magnetism. 

The years went by and Tom proved his worth. Sonny came to love him, even if he didn't respect him. Tom tried to be a good son, and he knew he was doing better than his siblings. The problem was that when he was too much level-headed, too much calculating consigliere, it only made the Don sad. Tom read it in the quirk of his mouth. Sad that his true sons let him down. Tom cherished their close relationship, but he lived his life terrified of disappointing his adoptive father.

Fredo and Santino never changed much as they got older. Perhaps that was the problem. 

Michael became... different. Distant. 

It was his last night in the house before he went off to war. They'd managed okay. Fredo had started crying and left the dinner table but other than that, they kept up appearances. Happy for Michael. Happy for him to leave them forever, or leave them at all, potentially rot on foreign soil ridden with bullets without so much as a priest to bless his corpse.

Tom, of course, was not happy. He couldn't find a word other than heartbroken. 

He curled up in his bed and thought about how empty the house would feel without Mike in it. How empty he would feel. 

There was a tiny tap at his door, and then it was pushed open without his permission. He turned in his bed to see who it was, and caught Michael's silhouette padding inside.

"You okay?" he asked, tired but instantly alert.

Michael didn't say anything. He pulled the bedcovers aside and slipped in beside his brother, so close that Tom could feel the heat radiating off him. 

Neither moved. Tom, because he was too afraid. He touched as freely as any Sicilian now, a hand on a shoulder, a kiss on the cheek; but suddenly it seemed like touching Michael would be criminal. He held his breath. He began to realize there was something wrong with him, something he'd always suspected, but pushed down deep. 

In this close proximity, it rose up full force. He wanted to touch. 

Michael didn't move because he was thinking. Always, always thinking. You could see him doing it, but you never knew what. The windows were open, the curtains ruffled vaguely by the welcome breeze, because it felt too hot. The moonlight reflected in Michael's fathomless eyes as he shifted to pin Tom down.

Tom swallowed. His voice was hoarse when he asked what he was doing. Barely more than a whisper when Michael bent his head to brush their mouths together. "Mike. Stop." 

"You might never see me again," Michael said softly. 

"Don't," Tom flinched. He let his hands rest on Michael's hips, stroke his thumbs over the skin exposed under his shirt. At this point, he could convince himself this was all still fraternal, fraught with tension solely of the emotional kind.

"What are you doing?"

Michael kissed him. His hands cupped Tom's face, body weight pressing him against the mattress, aligning their hips so that Tom could feel the hard line of his arousal through the thin fabric of their pajama pants. 

The line was crossed and there was no convincing himself now. Tom accepted his own reality; he was a sick homosexual with a disturbing attachment to his brother. He let himself get lost in the kiss, Michael's slick tongue running over his teeth, grinding his cock up against his. 

Then with great strength, he pushed Michael off him, holding him so he wouldn't fall off the bed, but at enough distance to put an end to this. 

"There is no way in hell we can do this," he said, with an urgency that he hoped Mike would pick up on.

Mike licked his lips, shifting close again. His hand found its distracting way back to Tom's face, thumbing gently over his cheekbone. Tom felt dizzy with the force of Michael's affection, but he reigned himself in the same way he always had.

"I'm sick," he admitted. He grabbed Mike's wrist and pulled it away from his face. "I'm sick, and I shouldn't have let this happen. But you don't have to be."

"What are you talking about?" Michael laughed, openly derisive in the way youngest brothers are.

"Homosexuality is a disease," Tom answered, in the exact tone it had been relayed to him by the preachers. "It can be cured, though. You shouldn't... _encourage_ me."

Michael's face twisted in anger. He was still so young, so God-damned pretty, but his anger, though quiet, struck fear into Tom's soul.

"You're talking bullshit," Mike said through gritted teeth. "Times have changed, Tom."

"No they haven't. Are you stupid? You'll get yourself killed. Where'd you get all this stuff, huh?"

Michael looked away, jaw clenched. "I met some people. In college."

Tom groaned. 

"What?" snapped his brother defensively. "I met all sorts of different folks. Some of them liked cock, what do I care? Why is that a big deal?"

"I guess it's not," Tom shook his head, rubbing a hand over his eyes. "But for you it is. For us."

Michael tugged his arm out of Tom's grasp, resting his cheek on his knuckles. He looked like something out of a pornographic magazine, hair ruffled, shirt buttons undone to expose his chest, lips kiss-swollen. And his eyes. Jesus, fuck, those eyes. You could drown in them. 

"You want me, don't you?" Michael asked, although it wasn't really phrased as a question. "I've always been able to tell."

Tom felt nauseous. All he could manage was, "I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry," came the hissed reply. "Do something about it. Pop will never find out. Just this once, before I miss my chance."

How could Tom say no to that? The mention of their father struck a chord, imagining the old man's insurmountable revulsion at discovering how his adoptive son, the dirty runt he'd welcomed into his great and prosperous home, had corrupted his most cherished.

"We're brothers," Tom croaked. 

Michael sighed, colored with relief instead of exasperation, because he knew he'd won. 

He ran his fingers through Tom's hair, as if he was trying to soothe him. Tom had always believed he would go to Hell, not because of any specific sin, but a sense of morbid guilt that plagued him his whole life. Now he knew why. He lusted after another man; but worse, a man he considered his brother. 

It felt wrong to call it lust, though. He couldn't deny his erection, sure. Michael was gorgeous and pressed up against him; there was no way he could stop his body's natural reaction to that. But this wasn't just about sex. His feelings for Michael went as deep as the very marrow of his bones. 

"We're not really brothers, Tom," Michael said in a low voice. Boldly, he rested his palm over the heat of Tom's cock, who tensed, before giving in. 

It pissed him off. He'd heard it from everyone else, but never from the one person that mattered until now. Shaking slightly, he undid the rest of the buttons on Mike's shirt, slipping it off his slim shoulders and allowing himself to touch the expanse of smooth, olive skin. 

Michael kissed him again, not so patiently this time. It was hard and bruising, many years of pent-up emotion channeled through it, and the roughness of his hand closing around Tom's cock. Tom's hand traveled lower on his stomach, through the trail of hair that led to his brother's waistband, before he dipped under it and let Michael's precum wet his fingers.

Michael cursed softly against Tom's mouth.

They had to be quiet. Tom would rather die a thousand painful deaths before his family ever saw him with his brother's dick in his hand. Especially not Michael; sweet, and innocent with his naivete, and the fragility in his features. Tom knew that Mike was none of those things, but it was still a shock to feel the stark reality of it in the literal palm of his hand. 

They were young men; it didn't take long. Michael made the sweetest sound as he came messily over Tom's stomach, and it was seconds before Tom followed suit.

The reality of what he'd done began to set in with his brother's spend drying on his skin. He didn't feel guilt any more, he just needed to know that Mike was okay, that he hadn't hallucinated his consent and this was all a horrible misunderstanding. Maybe Michael just wanted to be held. 

"I love you," Mike said, interrupting his train of thought.

Tom exhaled shakily. He dragged Michael closer with the intention of never letting go. His brother smiled up at him, tongue between his teeth. "Let me get us cleaned up. Can I stay in your room?"

"Sure."

That was one good thing about a Sicilian household, Tom thought as he watched Michael put on a bathrobe and leave to fetch a washcloth. They didn't shy away from physical affection. As a young orphan, he'd needed that comfort. He needed it now, they all did. It's why Michael had spent that hour with Fredo cradled against his chest, promising to come back.

Michael came back and cleaned them both up, unbearably gentle with the cloth. Tom had a lump in his throat. There was so much he wanted to say, needed to say, but there wasn't enough time. 

"Mike," Tom whispered. "Michael."

"Yeah?" He set the cloth down and climbed back into bed.

"You _are_ my brother," Tom told him fiercely. "Don't take that away from me."

Michael turned to rest on his elbows, tilting his head to study him. Looking for something; Tom didn't know what, but he let his emotion show on his face.

Michael seemed satisfied. He lay back against Tom's arm, whose other came to rest possessively around his middle, before he said, "All right, Tom." He closed his eyes. "You're my brother, and I love you."


End file.
